State of Grace (Resurrection) (22 page)

‘What’s
your name, beautiful?’ I asked him, and he twitched his ears at me, nudging me with his head for more attention, like a huge shaggy dog. I rubbed my cheek against him and he held still. I patted his neck.

‘I think I’ll call you Bob,’ I said. ‘Until I know what your real name is.’

Bob whickered. ‘So you like that, do you?’ I cooed at him, letting him get used to the sound of my voice.

I glanced over at the grey stallion. ‘I’ll call you Fred.’ He laid his ears back even further
. Not too keen on his name, then. Tough.

I fetched a saddle and bridle
from the next stall. Bob let me tack him up without a murmur, and followed me without fuss when I led him into the yard. I glanced furtively around as I adjusted the girth: even though this big lad was a gentleman, they all tried the breathing in to expand their chest trick: it must be written in the ‘horses’ guide to being a proper horse’ book.

There was no sign
of any movement, except for one solitary crow sitting on a branch eyeing me expectantly. I pushed away the unsettling thought that the bird might be Viktor. After all, vampires were supposed to be able to turn into bats, so why not crows? And this one looked far too intelligent to be a mere bird, to say nothing of the fact that it reminded me of Viktor.

‘Shoo!’ I hissed at it, making Bob startle. The bird flapped lazily away, while I soothed the horse. ‘Sorry, boy,’ I murmured. ‘I should know better.’ He gave me a reproachful look, but stood quietly, like the gentleman he was, as, with effort, I bounced a couple of times on one foot then heaved myself up his side and into the saddle.

I took a second to get my bearings, studying the white-frosted mountains in front of me. The angles were slightly off from the view of the peaks I normally saw from my home, and I estimated that the cottage was at least one mile, if not two, to the east of Cyn Coed Farm, and possibly higher up, although it was difficult to tell; the land had changed in nearly one thousand years. My time had less trees, and during nine hundred centuries mankind had had a lot of  time to move vast quantities of earth around, building roads and houses, and clearing land for fields.

I turned Bob’s head
around and found the track leading away from the cottage, going south. I would have to follow that for a while through the trees, until I could either cut away west, or find a path through the woods.

My heart lifted. I was going home.

Tears fell i
n a steady trickle. I was cold, my various aches and pains had raised their ugly little heads, and I felt bereft. It was getting dark and I was standing in the middle of Cyn Coed Farm : or I would have been, had there been a farm to stand in the middle of. The house was gone. Technically, that wasn’t true. The house hadn’t been built yet. Neither had the barns or the cow shed. The only thing that was constant was the stream that cut down the west facing slope to join the fledgling river that grew from sides of Fan Y Big and was busy eating through the valley floor on its journey to join the River Usk.

I knew the
stream intimately. As a child I had played Poo sticks down it, I had drunk from it (in spite of my mother’s protests), I had paddled in it. I had watched it swell in winter and shrink in summer. I had built dams across it and had caught tadpoles in it. It ran down the left side of the garden where the vegetable plot transformed into a small orchard of apple trees. The little valley that had formed around it as it cut into the mountain was not as pronounced now, but it was still unmistakeably my stream.

In
this here and now there was nothing but the stream. Nothing to indicate what would grow out of the stones of this land at some future date, a building that would be at one with the landscape, nestling into the earth like it had been born, not built. Cyn Coed had always looked as though it was part of its surroundings, designed to be there. And now it wasn’t here. Nothing was. I felt the pain of my loss deep in my heart. Everything I knew and loved was gone. I missed my mother with a small child’s urgent neediness, I missed the solidity of home, I missed the dependability and strength of my father. I missed my life. There was nothing in this world I could relate to, except that stream, and its uncaring rippling over the bedrock only emphasised the fleetingness of humanity. This stream was here eons before I came into existence and would be here long after I, and everything I knew and loved, was gone. Nature would carry on without me, the world would continue to turn long after I am dust and long after humankind had vanished from its memory. I felt small and so very insignificant, and very much alone. Except for Roman.

I don’t know how long he had been watching me, his silence and stillness melting him into the landscape. I have no idea what had alerted me to h
is presence, some sixth sense perhaps, warning me I was being watched.

He felt my mood. Saying nothing,
he wiped my tears and then gathered Bob’s reins from where I had tied them to a branch, led the horse to me and lifted me in his arms, placing me in the saddle, before swinging up behind me. I settled back into him as if I was entitled. It felt right, Roman holding me, in spite of what I knew. I no longer felt fear. I felt at peace.

There was a surprise waiting for me when we reached the cottage: a wooden bath had been set in front of the fire and was partially filled with warm water. An ugly black cauldron was hanging on a metal frame over the fire and was bubbling happily.

My mood lifted immediately. A
bath
. Roman saw my reaction and his carefully blank face softened.

‘Thank you,’ I whispered.

‘My pleasure.’ Then he added, ‘Do you make a habit of bathing?’

‘A habit?’ I was confused. ‘Of course. Doesn’t everyone?’

His beautifully formed lips twitched. ‘No,’ he replied and I could see his suppressed laughter. ‘Once, maybe twice a year is not a habit.’

‘Oh! That explains the smell!’

‘Indeed it does. I have become accustomed to it.’

‘But you don’t –’
I broke off, hastily, not wanting to throw dispersions on his cleanliness. This time he laughed out loud and I smiled with him.

‘I
bathe in the stream, as often as is necessary,’ he said cryptically. ‘Come. Let me help you disrobe.’

I blushed to the roots of my hair. ‘I can manage this myself,’ I insisted. I didn’t mind sharing a shower, and had done so more than once with Joe, but all I wanted to do at the moment was to get clean.

‘It is easier with someone to add the hot water,’ he said, all innocence and hurt feelings. I wasn’t deceived.

‘You can pour the water in before you leave,’ I said firmly.

He did as I asked, and I waited for him to shut the door behind him before I struggled out of the silly dress and even sillier underthings. The warm water was heavenly, but it wasn’t until I was fully submerged that I realised one essential item was missing.

‘Er… Roman,’ I called. ‘Where is the soap?’

He was standing next to the bath quicker than I could blink, holding out a tiny sliver of white, and enjoying the view.

‘You did that on purpose,’ I said, wrapping my arms across my chest, and s
crunching my legs up to my middle.

He raised a shoulder in an elegant shrug. ‘Shall I take it away?’

‘No.’ I snatched it from him, his eyes immediately settling on my breasts. Bloody hell! It didn’t matter what kind of man he was, males were all the same. One track minds. I sighed in exasperation.

‘Would you like me to add some herbs to your bath water?’ he asked.

‘Why?’ I said sharply. ‘Do you intend to eat me?’ As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I wished I hadn’t said anything. A sudden stillness settled over him and his eyes sparkled dangerously. The atmosphere was abruptly charged with sexual tension. I could almost smell his desire.

‘If you would like me to.’ His voice was rough with need, and at that I was lost. Hot, wet fire slipped and slithered through my stomach, settling between my legs. I couldn’t speak, but he knew what I was saying, nevertheless.

Taking the soap out of my nerveless fingers and putting it to one side, he grasped a jug, dipping it repeatedly into the bath, sending water cascading over my head,  shoulders and back until I was thoroughly soaked. Then he washed me, his soapy hands gliding over my skin and through my hair. The soap smelled strange and not particularly nice, but I didn’t care. His scent drifted over me making my head spin, and as he leaned closer I breathed him in. I don’t know how he did it, but the very smell of him excited me. I had been vaguely aware of it as we rode back, but now it overwhelmed me – musky, spicy, sweet – filling my mind like air filled my lungs.

I cried out as his hands found my breasts. He massaged them gently until I was squirming, frantic for his mouth on my nipples. He bent closer and I thought I was going to get my wish, but he kissed my lips instead. He tasted like honey and sea air, and I sighed with pleasure.

I wanted him naked, my fingers reaching for the hem of his tunic, but his hands grasped mine, pushing them away from him.

‘Wait,’ he said softly. ‘Let me do this for you.’ And then his fingers were between my thighs, soaping me and I moaned at his touch. I was breathing hard when he stood me up in the tub, and was only vaguely aware of him adding crushed lavender
heads to the water which used to rinse me off. It was cold and I shuddered as the water trickled over my super-heated body. The lavender washed away the unpleasant soap smell, and I realised what he had meant about the herbs. Looks like I wasn’t going to be supper after all. Or was I?

I shrieked and my knees nearly buckled as he spread my legs, burying his face in me. His tongue – oh God, his tongue! – lapped
at me like a cat, finding that delicate little nub, teasing and licking, stoking my need higher until I could take no more. His fingers slid into me, and tipped me over the edge, and I cried out as the orgasm burned through me.

I collapsed over him, aftershocks rippling, and he lifted me out of the tub and lowered me onto a fur. I lay, empty and incomplete, as he reached for a piece of cloth and began patting me
dry. I couldn’t wait. I wanted, no,
needed
, him inside me. I needed him to fill me.

I batted his hands away and grabbed his tunic, eager for the f
eel of his naked body on mine but to my dismay he pulled away.

‘No,’ he said and I heard the effort it cost him.

‘Please.’ I didn’t care if I begged. I was beyond caring.

‘I can’t.’

‘You
can
,’ I insisted. ‘Please, Roman.’

‘I will… hurt…
you,’ he said. I was sure he wanted to say something else.

‘I don’t care. You won’t hurt me.’

‘I can’t separate mating from…’ he groaned, then he muttered, so low I could hardly hear him, ‘I can’t take any more from you.’

With a sudden flash of insight, I knew exact
ly what he meant. ‘Then don’t. Don’t take any more.’

His eyes, deep black, widened wh
en he understood. ‘I can’t help it.’

‘You
can.
Please Roman.’

My hands had been busy and I had managed to get his breeches untied, and his erection sprang free. We both gasped at the same time. I grabbed the back of his head, fingers tangling in his hair and pulled him down to me. He paused as our lips met, the velvet tip of him touching my delicate folds. With a savage cry he plunged into me. I arched my back, meeting him thrust for thrust, keeping his mouth on mine, not giving him the opportunity to bite. And he let me kiss him, when he could quite easily have pulled away. His fangs were extended and their sharpness bruised my lips but didn’t pierce the skin.